(written on my birthday 2011 after fishing at Roaring River)
holding my fly line
cradled as a rosary
a holy line to connect me
with the Almighty
and a trout
praying my fly line
3-weight supple yellow
cast upon the river
as my prayers
please just one today
river flows
trout he follows
orange fly on the rosary line
caught and lost
water and words flow
forgive me now
i return
line on the water
with every cast i am nearer
to God and the almighty trout
both speak in whispers
in worlds apart
so near to me
i meet you here
upon these waters
with holy line in hand
there is no place closer to heaven
in dreams of trout
forgive me Lord i pray,
i caught no trout today
two trees died in a wood
(seen on the way to church)
two trees died in a wood
withered to brown -
not just the bark, mind you,
but leaf and all
keeping each other company
in death
as some aged couple who
leave this life together
hand in hand
yet standing still, not yet
fallen to decay and rot
and the work of worms
perhaps it is better to stand
in death than to
fall in life,
but what strength they must have had
when they were all green
85 on highway 35 in late afternoon
(one of my favorites from my college years)
death comes easy in an automated world
where love has no face – no smile or touch
that i could know, only bitter
seedless shadows of a truth unseen.
the road is short to the next hill
where i can see long. i have remembered
where i was and was going, but that doesn’t
matter now. even the wind wonders
where dust will fall.
the screams of a butterfly
kissing my windshield
disturb me,
but i drive on into new life.
203 West Commercial Street
(the address of Victory Mission in Springfield, MO, also written in my college years after a night serving food)
They wander in, leaving the cold, leaving
the empty street behind, embracing the warm
smiles and food given to them.
This is a place they come, not to lose themselves
but to be themselves, to claim an identity.
This world has forgotten who they are, but tonight
I remember.
I come here to find something
in me that is still human, or perhaps
to find that which is not human,
not part of this world.
I am in their eyes, and I find myself
at peace among them. All of us
are searching for a sanctuary
from the world. In this mission they have found it.
And at least for tonight, I too have a home.
ocean view
(one more from college)
clustered denizens
of a sandy world
display themselves in a
ritual of color,
and flaunting their cancers.
they are asleep in the light,
dreaming of giant
sandcastles
covered in pearls.
waves rush in
and out
like the latest
philosophies,
while exhausted
beachers
curse the sun
and laugh at children
building sandcastles,
remembering how quickly
the waves
take them away.
the bowl of immensity
(May 2006, in the dark days)
a cup of kindness
morning and evening
of coffee or of tea
trading the colossal
for the small things
finding immensity in the sugar bowl
it’s not the size of the gift
but the giver’s heart
that fills the home with love
untitled love poem #15
(August 5, 2009 for Deb)
A, mon amour,
What can I say?
You are to me
As the sun to the day.
winter love
(Christmas 2009 for Deb)
snow falls
my heart rises
i am with you
our house is cold
our home is warm
you are with me
the snow outside is cold
the tree-lit home is warm
and Christ is with us
the winter days are short
but the nights are us
we belong together
to Duchess
(for the dog who found my dad below Maiden Cliff)
you found him when another left
you were faithful
where others were not
on the mountainside
below the rocky cliff
lost in the trees
you found him, and i for one
am grateful
to the Lakewood sledding hill
i see you now in summer
clothed in a bright green swath
from top to bottom
a thing of beauty, warmth
i could sit in the shade with you
and talk about nothing, or everything
and dream of the great round world
but i know your cold, dark secrets
your cruelty in the long, hard winter
how you take the innocent youth
and hurl them downhill
speeding toward the icy lake
oh, you are green and fair now
but come winter you will be snow-covered
i know when the hard-trampled slopes
are the most treacherous
when even the brave pause
the locust tree, thorn-covered giant,
in warm days home to bird and squirrel
but in winter the terror of sledders
grabbing at them as they pass by
many times i have crashed my sled,
eaten snow,
rather than be torn by thorns
though fairer you are clad in summer green,
still i prefer the rush, the danger of winter
saudade #2
(Saudade is a beautiful Portuguese word meaning a sort of remembrance or longing. For definitions of the Moroccan Arabic words used by sellers in the medina, see below after the poem. The last part is from a vision a friend had of me, something of a saudade.)
“Balek!”
i will not stray
too far down the myriad cobbled paths
i will take the narrow way
“L’kama!”
we are sipping mint tea
burning fingers on the glass
sweet syrup sickly
hospitality
“Zbel!”
you take but never give
but you are a blessing
for all the medina
“Melha!”
i will take the bitter parting
with the sweet remembrance
we walked the streets
and sipped in cafes
and spoke of dreams,
visions:
you smelled jasmine
while i held the hand
of the prophet, the king;
we walked in paradise.
what you saw there will be with me
forever.
Balek means “make way”
L’kama means “mint”
Zbel means “trash”
Melha means “salt or bitter”
what lucy saw
(with a nod to Mr. Lewis)
look in the big book
turn the pages
one
by
one
look ahead
but you can never turn back
the pages of time
be careful what you wish to see
who you see
how you feel
the book does not lie
neither does your heart
the keeper of the book
is kept by him who sees all
knows every heart
in every world
he turns the pages of our lives
one
by
one
and gives the desires of our hearts
time bends for no man
but he is no man, or every
he sees all
knows all
feels all
let him turn us
forward, back
and free
flu flu
who knew
where the flu flu flew
too few of you
of poems and pens
white star
floating above
the ink floating sideways
substance without depth
movement on stationary
poem in motion
to inspire is to be inspired
to call into motion
the idle nib
itself a creation of the arts
some say the color of ink
matters but little
yet if invisible
the words will be lost
poetry has no end
and no beginning
we only meet it in the middle
for sally
spending my days trying to remember
trying to forget
oh the things i still remember –
i know my name
did i tell you that already?
for breakfast i had cold cereal
and hot coffee and
warm toast with raspberry jam
and today i am going to lunch with friends
i still have friends, they remember me,
me as i used to be,
as i really am
isn’t that the beauty of friendship?
i know my name
oh i told you that already
but i remember your name
for breakfast i had cereal and coffee
and toast with jam
and today i am going to lunch with someone
oh i hope they remember to pick me up
i have lost so much
don’t let go of me
i remember my name
and i think i remember yours
you are a friend of mine
for breakfast i had cereal
and i will remember to eat lunch
i have friends
i remember me
do you?
please don’t forget who i am
even if i do
don’t forget me
there was laughter and there are tears
but i remember me
i’m holding on
don’t ever let go of me
i remember a friend like you
i remember my name
do you remember?
untitled
you loved as fireworks
bright and loud and clear
but only lasting a night or a season
but i as the tides ebb and flow
yet are constant, in motion
i remain where others fall
embers
i carry in me
embers from the fires
of hell
how you put them in me
without being burned
i do not know
picking poetry
(written September 20, 2011 at the writers group, with my Morrison’s fountain pen using Noodler’s Black Swan in Australian Roses ink)
picking poetry
on the hillside
i gather it in bunches
to carry back home
next year i should plant some
closer by in my garden
but it wouldn’t turn out the same
growing cultured and contained
poetry must be gathered wild
to be fully alive
rhymes and lines
rushing down the mountain stream
the green and gold
touching at the stream bank
in the late summer afternoon
only the slippery stones will hold their place
the fly line of life
(April 5, 2011)
my life is a fly line
cast out over waters
still and turbulent
ever in motion but each moment still
in its singularity
cast in hope more than expectation,
hope for a trout
i seek them with every cast
even in the backwater ponds
too small and warm to hold trout
ever i seek them
and the bending space and time
and fly rods
to the singular point
when a trout will be seeking my fly
and take it